Three Strikes, You’re Out

“You sure had a good time staring down Pam’s dress,” Margaret said with a saber’s edge on the words. “Not that you had to. Her breasts were mostly hanging out.” She pointed the silver blade my way. “And this wasn’t the first time.” Her eyes shot daggers my way. I bowed my head in penance, keeping one eye on the butcher knife in her left hand.

“So were yours,” I said. “I looked at them a lot more than I did Pam’s.”

Margaret paced back and forth across the kitchen, mumbling. Leftover dishes from my surprise birthday party crowded the sink and counters.

I sat on a stool wearing only a pair of briefs. Margaret’s demand. It was that or live without a favorite body part. I reminded her it was a favorite of hers, too. She replied she could get a dozen at any nearby establishment that sold adult beverages.

“Did you try the peach pie?” I asked. “It was very good. Made it myself.” 

“Buffalo pucks, you did. You couldn’t cook your way out of a McDonald’s.” 

“Well. . .I added my special ingredient.” She stared at the pie, her head cocked to one side, an incredulous look on her face. “Did you notice how everyone who ate the pie loosened up. That was the uppers I put in each piece.” I smiled the smile that usually melted her when she got grumpy.

“You put what in the pie?”

Out of desperation, I smiled big enough to make my face hurt. No change.

Man part, pie, smile. All no. I’m screwed!

The Borrowed Grave (a 100 word story)

Dressed in overalls and flannel shirt, a cap's brim lowered over his eyes, Reginald lumbered past the houses where impatient witches, ghosts, and vampires held out bags and pillowcases waiting for sugary treats. Contrary to the others, the sack he hugged to his chest contained possessions no one would see but him.

Tonight was the one year anniversary of his mother's disappearance. The police had ceased their investigation after finding no clues. 

Reginald glanced left and right before walking through the cemetery’s gates, the fresh grave, someone else's resting place, awaiting him. What better place to hide his mother's bones. 

The Clown, The Mark, The Mandolin

Tammi stepped into the ballroom wearing a clown outfit of purple, yellow, and green swirls. The matching mask covered her face. She looked around and saw her mark in a far corner dressed as a minstrel and carrying a mandolin. She wove her way through the crowded ballroom, this year’s Halloween fundraiser a huge success. When the minstrel turned her way, she raised her candle into a Statue of Liberty position and, with a few more steps, joined him.

“You know the drill,” the minstrel said.

“Yes. We swap candle for mandolin. You work your way around the room and exit. Then I follow and give the mandolin to a man outside eating a hot dog.”

“Excellent. And remember, your sister will be just fine as long as you do what you’re told.”

“What about the diamonds?” she asked.

“They’re wrapped in a cloth inside the instrument.” He pointed to an opening on the top. “Any other questions?”

After they made the swap, Tammi looked the minstrel in the eye and said, “You’re not very good at this.”

“What do you mean?

“I don’t have a sister.” 

The minstrel turned and found himself facing a man dressed in a police uniform from the 1800s. 

”Minstrel, I’m Sergeant Phillips of the Metropolitan Police, and you’re under arrest.” He lifted his hand. Two similarly dressed men joined him. “Thanks for the tip, and for helping with the arrest,” the sergeant said to Tammi.”

Tammi smiled as she exited the room, excited that the $150,000 reward would finally allow her to take the round-the-world cruise she’d always dreamed of.

Dinner Time

First published in Flash Fiction Magazine.

Margaret toddled down the hall on her way to dinner. She didn't normally wear pajamas when she went out, but there wasn't enough time to change. 

She stopped to look at a painting she didn't recognize. The sign on one building had the words Cafe Bourgeois. Aliz's Pub was on another. The streets were narrow and cobblestoned, the buildings small and old, like her. She moved on. A wheel on her walker wobbled with each step.

Margaret reached the dining hall and noticed the man sitting at a table in the corner. His gray hair was cut short--military style. His eyes were closed. He wore slippers. She frowned and looked away. 

It bothered her that no one else was seated. People needed to be on time. It was a rule.

Leaving her walker along the wall,  the one with a large calendar listing activities for July, she made her way to her chair. The menu perched in the middle of the table had two pages—one for lunch and one for dinner. She read the dinner side, crinkled her nose when she got to broiled fish and nodded at the chicken pot pie.

"Hello, Margaret."

"Hello," Margaret parroted and added a wave, like she saw the Queen do on TV.

"What are you doing here?" the woman dressed in an orange blouse and pants set with Karen on her nametag said. "You should be in bed."

"I'm hungry. I came down for dinner."

"It's 2:00 in the morning."

"But I'm hungry." Frustration spread across Margaret's face. "Didn't you hear me?"

"I'm sorry, Margaret." Karen smiled and put a hand on the older woman's shoulder. "It's been a long night. How about a package of cookies and some juice? Will that hold you until breakfast?"

"I guess it'll have to," Margaret mumbled.

"Well, I can always sneak you another package of cookies if one isn't enough." Karen bent down so her lips were near Margaret's ear. "Our little secret. Okay?"

"How about him?" Margaret nodded toward the man in the corner. "Will he tell on us?"

"Nah," Karen said with a wave, like she was shooing a fly. "He's probably asleep."

Margaret went back to reading the menu. When Karen returned with a glass of apple juice and a package of peanut butter cookies, Margaret looked up and, pointing at the menu, said, "I'll have the chicken pot pie and fruit cup."

 

Blood is Thicker

Shannon has loved Charissa ever since her first role as a destitute private detective. He began to follow her around town and was familiar with all her disguises. Tonight, as they approached the alley, he pulled the dagger from his jacket, ready to help his sister obtain her dream part.